


The Sixteenth Seal

by picturestoproveit



Category: Sherlock (TV), Supernatural
Genre: And definitely a blowjob or two, F/M, Het, I'm going to have to get drunk to get through this, I'm not sure where this is going..., Post Series 2 of Sherlock/ Mid Season 4 of Supernatural, Pre and Post Reichenbach, There will be sex
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-10-29
Updated: 2013-11-18
Packaged: 2017-12-30 19:28:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 19,848
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1022519
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/picturestoproveit/pseuds/picturestoproveit
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock makes a deal with the devil to save his friends. Molly makes a deal with herself to save his ass at all costs.  A Sherlock/Supernatural crossover.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first attempt at fan fiction. I can't promise it will be good. Be gentle.
> 
> Obviously, I own nothing. Obviously.
> 
> I'm American. Sorry. 
> 
> A big thanks to my dear friends Anne (anneincolor on Tumblr) and Essbee ( thefuturemrswatson on Tumblr) for beta-ing it up, and for generally being awesome and encouraging

"You were right. I'm not okay."

 

Molly Hooper stopped dead in her tracks and slowly turned to face the intruder. 

       

 "What's wrong?" she asked. Sherlock Holmes rose from his seated position in the darkened lab and made his way towards the petite pathologist. His expression, typically so cold and stoic, had softened into one of complex, yet subtle, emotion. Gone was his usual air of clinical arrogance. In it's place was fear, anguish, insecurity. Molly shifted her purse and clutched her cardigan tightly.  

 "Molly...I think I'm going to die," Sherlock stated softly.  "What do you need?" she asked anxiously. She held her breath and waited. 

  He locked his gaze on her, and when he spoke, his voice had the slightest tremor. Barely perceptible to the common listener, but then again, she was far from common.

  "You." 

 Molly smiled and slowly blinked her eyes. When she opened them again, her corneas were blood red, pupils non-existent. She licked her lips and her smile grew wider. "Now we're talking," she purred, her sweet voice taking on an acrid tone. Sherlock held her gaze, his face impassive. 

 She placed her bag on the laboratory table and began to slowly circle the detective. He remained silent as her crimson gaze wandered up and down his body. "I knew you'd see it our way, eventually," she purred. Sherlock clenched his jaw, but still said nothing. The demon reached up and gently stroked his face, and his eyes flared briefly as he recoiled from her icy touch. She chuckled. "Come now, Mr. Holmes," she chided softly. She dropped her hand from his cheek and softly trailed her fingers down his throat. "This little mouse has been aching to touch that pretty face for far too long. Let her have her moment." Sherlock continued to glare at her silently. The demon sighed and dropped her hand back down to her side before taking a step back. "All business with you, yeah?" she snarked, quirking an eyebrow.

 Sherlock finally spoke. "Unless I'm mistaken, I do believe this is a business transaction, one that I intend to complete as quickly as possible," he snapped, leveling his gaze. "You know what I want, and I know what you want. Let's not make this anymore 'precious' than it needs to be." The demon grinned, and blinked. "Indeed, Mr. Holmes," she replied sweetly. "Though this is fairly unorthodox for me. I usually don't conduct my business in pathology labs." 

 Sherlock snorted softly. "You'll have to forgive me. I thought this location would be a little more discreet than the middle of Trafalgar Square," he drawled. The demon pursed her lips and began to slowly circle her prey again. "More discreet, for sure," she intoned, "But far less fun." She stopped at his shoulder and peered up at his face. "So, Mr. Holmes," she said with a subtle sneer, "now that  _I_ know that  _you_  know what I am, and I know your predicament, I will ask you once more: What. Do. You. _Need_?"

 Sherlock inhaled sharply, pausing briefly before he spoke. "I want the demon Jim Moriarty dead. I want his hellhounds called off. I want to ensure the continued safety of Mrs. Hudson, Lestrade... of John," he stated, his voice catching slightly at the expression of his flatmate's name. He cleared his throat and locked eyes with the crossroads demon standing before him. "And I want you to vacate Molly Hooper's body," he continued sharply. "I don't care whom you choose to possess from here on out, but once this deal is complete, you are not to harm my pathologist any further." The demon slid her gaze sideways, her mouth twisting into a wicked grin. " _Your_  pathologist, hmm?" she teased. Sherlock glared at her, the slight color on his cheeks saying more than any words could. A mirthless giggle escaped from her throat, and again she reached out for him, this time grabbing him by the hair and yanking his head down several inches, bringing his face even with hers. He grimaced slightly, but determinedly held her stare as she hungrily searched his eyes.

 After a long moment, she finally spoke. "I'll give you one year," she proclaimed, with a mixture of glee and venom. Sherlock's eyes flared. "One year?” he sputtered. "One year, when I'm to understand the standard deal is a decade?" She tightened her grip on his hair, and he grunted. The sickening smile finally left her face as she wrenched him down further, resting her lips next to his ear. 

"A decade?" she hissed. "That would be playing fair. And I'm not playing anymore." Sherlock's blood ran cold with recognition.  _Ah, stupid. Stupid, stupid, stupid._ He squeezed his eyes shut as realization set off a horrifying chain reaction in his brain.The demon snorted, and the cruel grin returned to her face. "Yes, Mr. Holmes. I've been circling you for quite some time. Your heroics in Karachi were impressive, though rather unnecessary." She pulled her mouth away from his ear and studied his face. "It would have taken more than a simple beheading to keep me down," she purred. Sherlock squeezed his eyelids tighter as he felt bile creep up his throat. The demon winked knowingly. "The after party was a nice bonus, too, yeah?" she said wickedly. "I was surprised. Didn't think you had it in you." He snapped his eyes open and glared at her with pure hatred.  

The demon chuckled softly. "Easy, lover. This will all be over soon," she breathed, bringing her lips to his ear once more. "Now, let's talk about the fine print, shall we?"


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The aforementioned "fine print."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Plotty and talky. Everyone's pants are still on, so don't get too excited.

The demon released her grip on his curls and took a half step backwards. Sherlock rose to his full height and adjusted his suit, looking down on her with a mixture of contempt, disgust, and cold indifference. She cocked her head to the side, studying him for a moment before she spoke again.

"Now, to address your concern, Mr. Holmes. I am offering you a one- year deal for several reasons. First and foremost: I don't like you," she presented amiably. His expression remained unchanged. The demon shrugged and continued. 

"Secondly, what you are asking of me is quite the tall order," she said. "Not only are you demanding the safety of your 'pets', but you're asking us to kill one of our own." She closed the small gap between them and softly fingered his lapel. "Jim Moriarty is one of our best and brightest," she stated quietly, staring at her fingers as she stroked the material of his jacket. "A true knight of Hell. His absence will be painfully, and violently, noticed. The consequences of his death will be vast." Her breath hitched, and she rested her palm on his chest, pressing gently. Sherlock gave an involuntary shudder and leaned away slightly. The demon smiled.

"And finally, you're asking me to abandon a perfectly good meat suit," she murmured. Sherlock froze and held his breath. Her wicked grin widened as she rested her head on his shoulder. "I like being inside of her," she whispered obscenely. He stiffened angrily as she continued. "She's a good fit. A nice, warm,  _deliciously tight_  fit." 

Sherlock jerked away, and the demon chuckled. "Now, now Mr. Holmes. Let's check that temper of yours. Emotions are only going to make this messier in the end. At least, for you." She slowly edged back until she was standing directly in front of him. His eyes rapidly danced over her face, and she could see the wheels turning behind his gaze. The demon snickered cruelly as she pressed her palms together, rested her fingers under her chin, and waited. A brief shadow of anger darkened his face as he registered her mocking pose. He stilled his thoughts and met her eyes. 

"I will agree to your terms," the demon pronounced. "Your friends will remain safe. I will provide you with the appropriate ammunition to kill Jim Moriarty. You, yourself, will remain invincible for twenty- four hours." Sherlock raised his eyebrows, unable to keep the flicker of surprise off his face. The demon smirked. "Consider it my 'going away' present’", she remarked. She paused and dropped her hands to her breasts, squeezing them roughly. Sherlock's eyes flared with fury, and she grinned. "Furthermore, I'll stop violating 'your' pathologist, once and for all. In return, you have one year to get your affairs in order, after which time you will become the property of Hell." The demon took a small breath and licked her lips. "Now," she murmured, fixing her hellish gaze on his lips, "shall we 'seal the deal'?"

"But there's more," Sherlock remarked casually. The demon froze and lifted her eyes to his face. "Excuse me?" she snapped, the playfulness evaporating from her voice. Sherlock quirked his eyebrow, a smile ghosting past his mouth. "I said, there's more," he repeated. "YOU have more. There is another reason why you are so amenable, so very  _willing_  to make this deal." The air in the laboratory went dangerously still. Sherlock clasped his hands behind his back and began to slowly circle the crossroads demon, who was now seemingly frozen in place.  "I have no idea what you're talking about," she snarled, all coy pretenses firmly banished.

 Sherlock huffed and rolled his eyes. "Please, do not pretend for one  _second_  that you have forgotten who you are dealing with," he said, a familiar arrogance returning to his tone. "The provisions I have requested are more than just  _'a tall order'_ ," he continued.  "Ensuring that my friends do not meet an untimely end is one thing. But sanctioning the death of a fellow demon? Well, that is a different story entirely, now isn't it?" He smirked at her, his eyes filled with pure contempt.  

 "I am an extraordinary human," he continued casually, as if stating a fact. "Truly, a crown jewel for your collection of souls. But, I am still merely human. I am still 'beneath you'." He stopped pacing and stood behind her. She remained rooted to the floor and stared straight ahead, unwilling to give him the satisfaction of seeing the look on her face.  He smiled and leaned forward, brushing the shell of her ear with his breath. "One lowly human soul in exchange for a ' _true knight of Hell_?" he hissed mockingly.  White- hot rage flushed through the demon's body, but she remained still and held her tongue. 

 "Offering me twenty- four hours of immortality that I never even asked for in the first place? Now...why would you do that?" he asked sardonically.  "And don't tell me it is out of the goodness of your heart. As a monster of the lowest order, you do not have one." At that, she hissed through her teeth, quietly yet menacingly. Sherlock smiled. "Yet you're sensitive about it. Interesting," he mused. He turned his head slightly, bringing his mouth within millimeters of her ear. "Don't be angry with me because the tinsmith forgot to give you a heart," he whispered. The demon stiffened with fury, a low growl building in her throat.  

Sherlock straightened and continued his lazy orbit until they were once again face- to- face. "Though I'm flattered, you can't expect me to believe that you would turn on your own brethren simply to add me to your ranks," Sherlock said. He paused for another moment and scanned her face. Molly's plain and pretty features were terribly out of place on this evil beast. Her open and friendly countenance had been replaced with a mask of cruelty and malevolence. Sherlock felt a brief ache as longed to gaze into Molly's sparkling hazel eyes, instead of the demonic red ones that were currently fixed on his throat.     

 "There is going to be a coup," Sherlock declared abruptly. The demon snapped her eyes up from his jugular to his face. Her nostrils flared slightly, and the briefest look of shock passed over her features. Sherlock could barely contain his smugness. "A power play for the throne of Hell," he continued with a fair amount of mirth.  "Clearly, there are two factions. The question is, which side are you on?" The demon stared at him, silently defiant. "What is to be gained? What is to be lost?" he asked. His questions were met with more silence. Sherlock's expression remained hard as he stared the demon down. "What…is this…all...for?" he slowly demanded.

The demon snorted and tilted her chin defiantly. "What makes you think there's a faction? Maybe I'm operating alone," she snarled. "Maybe I'm looking to rise up through the ranks. Maybe I think Jim Moriarty is nasty twat who deserves what's coming to him." She inhaled sharply and took a menacing step forward. "The truth is, you don't know. You assume. In the end, you're just another pathetic human being who can't even  _begin_  to fathom the horrors and atrocities that we are capable of. Of the power we truly hold." He stared at her, and she could feel his eyes as they began to pick her apart again. "ENOUGH!" she screamed. Sherlock stilled, but he retained his expression of arrogant amusement. The demon inhaled, attempting to regain control of the situation. She spun on her heel and made her way back to the clunky purse resting on the lab table. "Now, Mr. Holmes, if you're done performing your little 'magic tricks', I think it's time to -

 "You said 'us'."

The demon's eyes flashed dangerously as she whipped her head back around.  "What are you on about?" she spat. Sherlock sighed. "Dull," he muttered under his breath. The demon dug her nails into her own leg and glared at him, fury contorting her features. She was losing what little patience she had to begin with. 

 "You said 'us'", Sherlock repeated. He affected a higher pitch to his voice as he mirrored her words. " _You are asking US to kill one of OUR own'_." He smiled. "An odd thing to say if one was 'going rogue', don't you think?" The look on the demon's face was all the confirmation he needed. His eyes flashed triumphantly, and for a moment, all he cared about was that he had deduced the situation correctly, deciding to ignore the potentially horrifying implications of what that deduction meant, at least for the time being.

 "I've had about enough of you and your bullshit, Mr. Holmes." The quiet rage in her voice was palpable. "The reasons why I am agreeing to this deal do not, and should not, concern you. Now, if you want your friends to live, I highly suggest we seal this deal before I change my mind and allow Jim Moriarty to dispose of you as he sees fit." She caught her breath and shot him another cruel smile, "Or before I order his hellhounds to rip out your flatmate's fucking throat." Again, she reached for the bag on the table as Sherlock stilled his body. She slung the purse over her shoulder and closed the gap between them. "Mr. Holmes," she murmured quietly, almost gently. "Do we have a deal?" Sherlock tensed his jaw, and before he had time to review his actions, he reached out and roughly grabbed the demon by the back of her head. He clenched his eyes shut and violently pressed his mouth to hers. 

 Her lips were cold and repellant.  _Molly's mouth always looked so soft and warm_. The air roared past his ears, and the blood pounded through his veins with a sickening force. _Wait...since when do I think about Molly Hooper's mouth?_ The atmosphere in the lab crackled with such force that he wondered, for a moment, whether or not he was being electrocuted. _Electrocution would be a welcome relief at this point_ , he thought, right before  the demon slid her tongue into his mouth.

He broke the kiss and pushed her away roughly, gazing at her with disgust. She offered him a knowing smile. "Atta boy," she cooed. "That wasn't so bad, now, was it?" He continued to silently glare at her as she reached into the purse on her shoulder, pulling out a small metallic object and pressing it into his hand. He looked down, and furrowed his brow in confusion.  

 It was a gun. An antique, by the looks of it. Sherlock brought the pistol up to eye level and began to examine it. Hand- crafted in the 1800's, yet recently fired as evidenced by the fresh bullet markings inside the nozzle. Four bullets remained in the chamber. The barrel was inscribed with the Latin motto  _non  timebo mala_ ("I will fear no evil", Sherlock murmured to himself). On the handle was a carved pentagram. 

 "This appears to be a prototype of the Colt Texas Paterson handgun, first manufactured in New Jersey in 1836," Sherlock muttered, more to himself than to the demon, who had begun to watch him carefully. He turned the gun over in his hands and slid the grip into his left palm. "Yet the painstaking carvings, coupled with the delicately buffed wooden grip indicates that this  _particular_  gun was handcrafted by someone with great skill, rather than manufactured  _en masse_." Sherlock paused as he adjusted his grip on the pistol. "This firearm was made by Samuel Colt himself," he murmured in awe. 

The demon cleared her throat. Sherlock looked up, and was flummoxed by the expression on her face. She looked...nervous. Frightened, even. Sherlock's eyes ticked back and forth between antique pistol and the demon several times before realization dawned. A slow, slightly sadistic smile spread over his face. 

"This isn't just any gun," Sherlock stated. The demon remained still and silent, never allowing her eye to drift too far from the firearm in Sherlock's grip. "This gun," he slowly continued, "this _particular_ gun, is especially lethal. It wasn't created to be some rancher's personal sidearm. No," he breathed. "This gun was created for another purpose." He looked up, his blue eyes gleaming. "This gun can kill  _anything_.

 The demon huffed. "Technically, it's the bullets that can kill anything," she snapped. Sherlock waved his hand dismissively. "Semantics," he mumbled, as he switched the Colt to his right palm. The weight of the pistol felt natural in his grip. He pointed the muzzle at the ceiling as he cocked the hammer back slowly. "And now, I suppose, you're concerned that I will be tempted to use one of these 'magic bullets' on you" he continued distractedly, maintaining his focus on the pewter barrel. The demon swallowed quietly before she responded. 

"If you kill me, you will kill her," she stated with somewhat forced confidence. Sherlock glanced at her sideways. "Ah, but you're not sure about that, are you?" he drawled. She drew herself up and jutted her chin. "Neither are you," she retorted. Sherlock reacted mildly, arching one eyebrow. "Indeed," he concurred, and reached behind his back with both hands, tucking the Colt into his waistband. 

"Now, I believe, as they say, 'deal is a deal'", Sherlock stated tensely, fixing his stare on the demon. She nodded. "It's been a pleasure, Sherlock Holmes," she said, in a tone that indicated it had been anything but. She took a small step towards the detective. "I'll see you in a year," she said breezily, as she stood on her tiptoes and pressed a cold kiss to his cheek. She pulled away and met his eyes. "After all, we can't have you on the side of the angels, now, can we?" she remarked sweetly. 

Suddenly, and without warning, she snapped her head back and opened her jaw. A screaming, howling mass of black smoke exploded from her mouth with a force that threw Sherlock halfway across the lab. Glass exploded as he crashed through a nearby workbench, his body hitting the ground with a sickening thud. He stared at the floor, momentarily dazed, before lifting his head. Time seemingly stopped as he beheld the ghastly spectacle before him.

Sherlock could only stare in horror as the thick, acrid blackness roiled from the pathologist's body, gathering above her and shooting through the ceiling. He pressed the back of his hand over his mouth, suppressing a gag: the smell of sulfur was nearly overpowering, even for a man who routinely kept decaying flesh in his kitchen. For what seemed like hours, but was surely only several seconds, Molly seized and shuddered, until the last of the dark smoke was finally gone. 

 An eerie calm descended on the lab as Molly lowered her head and opened her eyes. Sherlock exhaled audibly as he recognized the hazel irises that stared back at him. "Molly," Sherlock started, as he picked himself up off the floor. "Molly, I-"

He cut himself off as Molly's eyes rolled back into her head. He rushed forward, in a desperate attempt to catch her, but he was simply too far away. She collapsed on the floor in a heap, shuddering once more before becoming frighteningly still. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Viva la Colt!


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Welcome back, Molly.

_"Dean Winchester is saved."_

 

 The voice was cold and clear. She whimpered softly as a painful darkness edged along the corners of her mind. Jagged whispers, mostly indecipherable, floated through her head as she struggled to open her eyes. Screams, echoes, and shouts reverberated endlessly in her ears, starting at a deafening  level of volume before tapering down to a haunting whimper. It was so dark, so cold, if only she could open her eyes - 

 

 _"Dean Winchester is saved_. "

 

 Louder now. More insistent. Of all the furious clatter she heard in her head, it was the only phrase she could make out clearly. She had no idea what it meant, nor did she care at the moment. She simply wanted to be awake, to open her eyes and have control of her body once again. But the darkness was so heavy, and deep down she knew she simply wasn't strong enough to fight it for much longer. Her breath stuttered as she felt a deeper murkiness creep in from the periphery, swirling through her consciousness, bringing with it the ghastly howls and tortured moans that had been relentlessly haunting her for days on end. She was so tired, so weak... how simple it suddenly seemed, to stop fighting and allow herself to succumb to the sensation of sinking.  _Just let go, Molly. You're too weak. It's time to rest, Molly. Just let go..._

_"Molly! Open your eyes. Stay here, please stay..."_

_"Dean Winchester is saved."_

_So peaceful. Gentle, even. Sinking wasn't so far removed from floating, really, if one considered it for long enough...just let go, Molly..._

_"_ MOLLY!"

 

 With a jolt, Molly's eyes snapped open. It was still dark, but she could discern familiar shapes - tables, test tubes, lab equipment. Above her, a dark figure hovered, with one hand on her forehead, the other clutching her wrist tightly. Molly blinked slowly as the fog in her mind dissipated. The whispers and moans died away, and her awareness began to creep back. She took two shaky breaths and attempted to steady her focus on the pair of ice blue eyes that were searching her face frantically. 

"Sh-Sherlock?" she croaked drily. Intense relief washed over Sherlock's face as he gripped her wrist even tighter. "Molly, are you alright?" he asked, his words tinged with a lingering panic. "Are you...you?" 

Molly attempted a small giggle, but instead it came out as a wheezing cough. _Attractive, Molly._ "Yes, I- yes, it's me, I think..." She started to sit up, but was gently guided back down to the floor by Sherlock's strong hands. She opened her mouth to weakly protest, but he silenced her, placing two fingers gently on her lips.  

 "Don't try to move yet," he instructed. Her head was pounding so painfully, that she did little to argue. She lay quietly as he assessed her for injuries, lifting her limbs one at a time, bending and flexing her joints gently. After a few moments, Sherlock seemed satisfied with her prognosis and helped her to a sitting position. Despite some overall soreness and stiffness, she was remarkably unharmed. Well, except for the worst fucking headache she had ever had in her entire life. She winced and pressed her fingertips to her left temple. 

"Aren't you going to give me two aspirin and tell me to call you in the morning?" she kidded weakly. Any other day Sherlock would have groaned and implored her not to make jokes. Today, obviously, was different. His face lit up like Christmas holiday as he squeezed her shoulder affectionately.

 "Welcome back, Molly Hooper," he said with a boyish grin. Molly was more than slightly taken aback. In all the years she had known him, she didn't think she had ever seen him smile so genuinely. He easily looked ten years younger.  She faintly returned the smile with a weak one of her own. "Well, it's good to be back...except I didn't really go anywhere. I mean...I was here... I was..." Her voice faltered and her breath hitched in her throat. Sherlock peered at with a mixture of curiosity and trepidation. He waited for her to continue, but she remained quiet, her breathing somewhat rapid and shallow as she clearly struggled with her memories....

 _Her memories_. Sherlock felt a brief ache in his chest, as he desperately hoped she had been spared the pain of recognizing the ordeal she had just been through. He cleared his throat. "Molly," he began, attempting to soften his voice. "What do you remember?" Molly closed her eyes as silent tears streaked down her cheeks, dripping onto her folded hands. She was quiet for a beat before inhaling sharply.

 "Everything," she whispered hoarsely. "Everything. All of it. I left you in the lab, with John, to get some crisps...it...found me shortly after that." She exhaled slowly. "The security guard," she offered bitterly. "The stocky one with the kind face? He... grabbed me.... I was at the vending machine." Molly paused, her face wet with quiet tears. Her eyes glazed over as she took another shaky breath. Sherlock watched her with growing intensity. She slowly exhaled, clearly struggling to find the correct descriptors to finish her story.  "His mouth...it was open so wide... I... it was like smoke, but different, you know? Thicker. The smell was...unbearable...sulfur, but worse. If that's possible." A slightly hysterical giggle escaped from the back of her throat. "But you know that. You saw it, you were there...you... _Jesus..._ I couldn't  _stop it._ That  _thing_ , it...I was trapped. I was SCREAMING to you. And you couldn't.... hear me...I couldn't stop you...I had no control, my body..."

Molly's breathing became more rapid, and she finally turned her head to meet his eyes. "You made a deal with a demon," she cried hoarsely. "I was... _screaming_...but you...oh _God_..." She brought her hands to her face as loud sobs shook her small frame. Sherlock gently guided her to his shoulder and held her there as she wept. He didn't speak, if only because he ( _for quite possibly the first time in his life_ ) was speechless. After all, what can one say to a woman who had just revealed that she remembered every second of her own demonic possession?

After several moments, Molly's sobs quieted to gentle gasps. She slumped against his body as her breathing slowed. He kept his arm around her and rested his chin on the top of her head. They stayed in that position for quite some time, before Sherlock finally spoke. 

 "You were wrong, you know," he murmured. Molly hummed inquisitively, her head remaining on his shoulder. He tilted his face and rested his cheek against her soft, honey-colored hair. "You do count," he continued quietly. "You've always counted, and I've always trusted you." Molly lifted her head slightly and flashed him a weary smile. "That's good to know, Sherlock," she softly, as she sat up and smoothed her hair off her face. Her tired eyes took on a hint of determination. "Because you and I have a lot of work to do."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm halfway through chapter four. I'm hoping that posting this as a WIP will prod me into finishing. Either that, or encourage me to give up on writing entirely, abandon my family, and live off the land.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I thoroughly enjoyed writing the first half of this chapter. I thoroughly did not enjoy writing the second half. I think you'll find that it shows.

The tall, willowy blonde looked completely out of place as she stood under the blinking traffic light.  _A true one-stoplight town,_ she thought disgustedly, pulling on the hem of her posh mini-dress.  _Shitholes like this actually do exist. Amazing._ She glanced around, taking in her surroundings for what seemed like the thousandth time. A petrol station to her left. A fruit stand to her right. Fucking cornfields everywhere else. It was two in the morning, on a Tuesday, in a practically non-existent town somewhere in the United States ( _Nebraska? Missouri? Did it even fucking matter?),_ and to say that there were no signs of life nearby was a fucking understatement of the highest order. She sighed impatiently, shifting her weight uncomfortably.  _Fuck these stupid shoes._ She bent down to loosen the strap on one of her impossibly high platform stilettos. _That little pipsqueak of a pathologist may have had zero style, but at least she wore clogs._

The crossroads demon huffed out a chilly breath anxiously.  _Where the fuck was he?_ She lightly crushed the parchment between her well-manicured fingers, listening for some sort of sign that her boss had arrived, though she was beginning to think he was planning to let her rot in the middle of this bloody intersection in East Bumfuck, Oklahoma ( _Kansas?...one of the Dakotas? Oh, fuck it. Who the fuck cares?)_

 _"_ Iowa, _"_ a voice rasped suddenly. The blonde spun quickly on her heel and found herself within inches of a short, pale man. He wore an expression of cruel humor on his stubbled face, a gleeful malevolence dancing behind his eyes. He smoothed his hands down his black suit, and loosened the collar of his matching shirt slightly. "Really, doll, it's primary school geography," he continued in his gravelly British accent. He swept his gaze around the landscape and smirked. "America's heartland, " he declared, spreading his arms in mock reverence. "Amber waves of grain! Fields of dreams! 'If you build it, he will come'!" He dropped his arms to the side and shrugged. "Or something like that," he said, deadpan. The blonde peered at him with faint confusion, though she knew by now to keep her mouth shut when Crowley was being...well...Crowley. The King of the Crossroads may have been a sarcastic prick, but that didn't mean he wasn't a dangerous prick. 

"The Paris Hilton look suits you, love, " he snarked, trailing his eyes up and down her body. "Just make sure you're wearing knickers when you step out of those taxis." She continued to watch him warily. He sighed.  _"_ I'm aware that you didn't summon me here to demonstrate your sparkling conversational skills, but I know you must have  _something to say,"_ he snapped. "I know a woman with a mouthful when I see one," he added, lewdly arching his brow. 

"It's done," the blonde blurted out, thrusting the parchment towards Crowley. He shifted his eyes downward at document, still clutched in her hand, and paused for a beat. "Take it," the blonde demon hissed. " _Take it."_ She pressed the paper into his hand. He waited a few more moments before finally taking the document of out of her grasp. She audibly sighed in relief as Crowley unfolded the parchment and scanned it. He looked up at her, his eyebrows raised slightly. "A one year deal? And he agreed to this?" She nodded in silent assent, as he returned his focus to the contract in his hands. " _Call off the hounds.... abandon the meat suit...protect the pets..._ " he muttered to himself, scanning the provisions of the contract rapidly. " _.. .twenty-four hours of immortality..._ " He flicked his eyes up in faint amusement. "Really went out on a limb with that one," he mused. The blonde demon shrugged slightly. "Once I realized Moriarty's intent, it became a necessary countermeasure," she explained stiffly. Crowley made a noncommittal noise and quickly finished skimming the document. "Well, seems air tight," he said crisply, folding the parchment and sticking it inside the lining of his jacket. "This, of course, remains our little secret," he stated smoothly. The blonde demon nodded emphatically. "Yes, obviously," she agreed hastily. He smiled. "Atta girl. We wouldn't want the boss lady catching wind of this," he said lightly. She blanched slightly. 

"Aw, no worries, kitten," he smirked mirthlessly. "The right hand doesn't know what the left hand is doing. As long as your detective does what he's supposed to and takes care of Jim Moriarty, Her Royal Twatness will be none the wiser." Crowley smoothed his suit with both hands, and catching her eye, paused briefly to study her face. "You're terrified," he commented, in a tone that could almost described as gentle (if she didn't know any better). He leaned in and laid a cold hand on her cheek. "Well...you should be," he continued in his mock-soothing voice. "If Lucifer rises, there won't be enough lubrication on Earth to take the edge off of the ass-fucking he's going to administer. Starting with us." The blonde demon winced and Crowley grinned. "That's an uncomfortable thought, even for a power-bottom like myself," he quipped. "In the meantime, there are still deals to be made. I suggest you get back to work, " he suggested quietly, threateningly. 

 

"This is the Bible Belt, love," Crowley called over his shoulder as he walked away. "There has to be at least three preachers in a twenty mile radius who are dying to barter away their latent homosexuality." And with that, he vanished, leaving the blonde demon standing at the crossroads alone. She exhaled a long, quivering breath, cursing the day she ever agreed to become Crowley's personal lackey, and downright damning the day she ever met Sherlock Holmes. 

 

************************ 

 

"I am you. Prepared to do anything. Prepared to burn. Prepared to do what ordinary people won't do. You want me to shake hands with you in hell? I shall not disappoint you."

 

Weak sunlight bathed the rooftop in a cold, gray hue. London was quiet at this early hour; a gentle breeze and occasional bird call the only sounds permeating the air. Two men stood, face to face, near the edge of the hospital roof, staring the other down with silent fury. Each knew the confrontation was nearing its inevitable conclusion. And each assumed that he would be the one to walk away safely. Only one was correct.

Jim Moriarty smiled eerily and shook his head. His black eyes seemed to stare right through Sherlock as he replied in a mocking tone. "Nah. You talk big," his said, his voice lilting softly. "You're ordinary. You're _ordinary_. You're on the side of the angels."

Sherlock flared his eyes slightly as he recalled the crossroads demon's final words, spoken to him just hours before. _We can't have you on the side of the angels now, can we?_ The phrasing was surely no coincidence, he thought distractedly. He stored it away for examination at a later hour. There would be plenty of time for contemplation in the upcoming days. For now, action was required. 

Sherlock rose to his full height and stared down at Moriarty with a palpable intensity. "Oh, I may be on the side of the angels," he declared seethingly, "but don't think for one  _second_  that I am one of them."

Moriarty searched his face, blinking slowly. His shark-like eyes flicked back to a natural, deep brown hue as he smiled at Sherlock calmly and genuinely. 

"You're more like them than you'll ever know," Moriarty said placidly. He brought his hands to his face and rubbed his eyes roughly, inhaling slowly, deliberately. He dropped his arms to his sides. Sherlock didn't move, scarcely breathed, as he examined Moriarty cautiously. The demon, for lack of a better word, looked tired. He looked like he knew what was coming next.   _Well, no reason to drag this out, then._  Sherlock slid the Colt from the sleeve of his Belstaff and pointed the barrel at Moriarty's forehead. 

If Moriarty was surprised, he didn't show it. His maintained his expression of calm indifference as he flicked his eyes over the Colt, and then back to Sherlock's face. "I'm not sure what you're hoping to accomplish," he said lazily. "Whether I'm dead or not, the hounds will still strike. I train my pets well." Moriarty smiled. "Are you just looking to add the murder of Richard Brook to your headline tomorrow?" he asked, his nasty grin widening slightly. "' _Fake Genius Murders Children’s Telly Star_ ," he continued gleefully, spreading his hands in the air, the universal gesture for  _I can see it now._ Sherlock blinked, studiously attempting to keep the alarm off of his face. In their careful planning, both he and Molly had failed to take into account that in killing Jim Moriarty, he would also be killing the actor he was currently possessing. _Fuck._ Sherlock rarely cursed, but when he did, it was usually in his head, and it was because it was warranted. _I always miss something._

Moriarty seemed to sense Sherlock's hesitation. "Just get it over with," he said with an evil grin. "Jump. Save your friends, die in disgrace, and everyone's happy." He paused. "Well, maybe not _everybody, "_ he said extravagantly. "But certainly I will be. And Kitty Riley, at least until her ten years are up." He chuckled softly to himself. Sherlock kept the Colt pointed at his target and didn't respond. A few beats of silence passed before Moriarty made a sound of annoyance and rolled his eyes. "Oh, _come on,”_ he implored, his voice rising slightly. "You LOST. Just deal with it like a man! Killing me does NOTHING for you except- " He stopped abruptly. Slowly, a look of comprehension crept across his face. He stared at Sherlock with a faint look of shock, mixed with a small amount of begrudging admiration. 

"You made a deal,” Moriarty uttered. It wasn't a question. Sherlock was silent, choosing to answer by slowly drawing the hammer of the Colt back until it locked with a satisfying _click_. Moriarty's eyes blazed. "Who was it? Crowley?" he seethed. Sherlock shrugged. "Didn't catch its name," he offered in a bored tone. Moriarty quirked his mouth slightly and leaned forward until his forehead was resting up against the barrel. "Well, _you should have,"_ he hissed. Sherlock hesitated, and Moriarty saw it. _Shit._ The demon's smirk grew. "Ah, is it possible that the great Sherlock Holmes hasn't accurately deduced the situation?" he mocked. "Maybe, _just maybe_ , he's being used as a puppet? Wouldn't be the first time though, would it. Ms. Adler and I pulled your strings quite nicely a few months ba _-_

A sharp crack echoed across the rooftop, and Moriarty's head suddenly snapped back from the violent force of the bullet. His body remained upright for several moments, seemingly suspended by a crackling yellow current that flashed and flickered behind his eyes, and poured out through his slackened mouth. Sherlock watched emotionlessly from behind the still-raised Colt, as Moriarty gruesomely twitched and groaned, the entry wound between his eyes black and oozing. His body gave a few more involuntary jerks before the light finally went out, and he crumpled gracelessly to the rooftop. 

Sherlock lowered the pistol and exhaled the breath that he hadn't realized he'd been holding. He quickly tucked the Colt into his waistband and grabbed his phone out of his pocket. _It's done_ , he typed rapidly, and hit _Send_. Seconds later came the reply. _Do it now. He's on his way. Quadriceps. 10 minutes until peak concentration._

Sherlock replaced the phone back into his coat in exchange for a small syringe filled with a clear medication. _Zemuron, 25 milligrams,_ he repeated to himself, more to distract him from the task at hand than anything. _Neuromuscular blocking agent. Intramuscular onset, 2-4 minutes._ He removed the cap on the hypodermic needle quickly. _Complete paralysis achieved in 10-13 minutes._ He absently flicked at the bubbles in the syringe, the tic a remnant of a habit long past. _Time from respiratory arrest to complete cardiac arrest: 30 seconds to 2 minutes_. He steeled himself before plunging the needle through his pants and into the top of his left thigh, deploying the plunger with a smooth, practiced motion. 

Sherlock dropped the syringe and fumbled for his phone once more. _It's in_ , he tapped out. 

_Everything is in place. Please be careful._

Sherlock couldn't help but release a sarcastic chuckle. _Yes, Molly, I'll try to be careful as my chemically paralyzed body plunges to the pavement._  He took a deep breath and stepped up onto the ledge of the roof carefully. _Two minutes in_. Sherlock could already feel the effects of the medication as the chemicals began to take their hold. His nerves were tempered slightly with relief, as he and Molly were unsure whether or not his twenty-four hours of immortality meant that he would be immune to the effects of the drug. Without looking, he quickly typed _Plan A is a go_ , and hit _send_. 

 _You'll probably first feel it in your eyes_ , Molly had told him softly nearly an hour ago. _She was right, of course_. Sherlock struggled to blink, his eyes already beginning to water as he scanned the horizon. Four minutes. His chest was tightening, and he adjusted his breathing to accommodate the increasing stiffness of his lungs and diaphragm. _Five minutes_. Sherlock glanced at his mobile and quickly punched in the phone number as he watched the cab round the corner. 

"Hello?"

".... John," Sherlock said tightly, his throat constricted from both the medication and, to his dismay, emotion. _Dammit_. 

"Hey, Sherlock, are you okay?"

 

Sherlock’s eyes finally spilled over, as he struggled to breathe. _I'm sorry, John. I'm so, so sorry._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm aware that Crowley doesn't technically make an appearance until season five, but a Supernatural fan fic without Crowley is like a day without sunshine.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> More exposition....zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz

_Let me through...please...I'm a doctor... please let me though...he's my friend...._

 

Sherlock awoke with a start. _John._ His mind was racing frantically. _JOHN_. He struggled to sit up, the blood pounding deafeningly in his ears. _I'm stuck, I can't move._  He attempted to lift his body again, only to be forced back to the cold surface beneath him. _Why can't I move? Oh Jesus, John...._

"Sherlock! SHERLOCK!" a voice shouted. _Not John. Female. Pleading._ "Please- lie still! SHER- no, NO! LIE BACK! It's, me, it's Molly, Sherlock, please-"

Sherlock finally stopped struggling and turned his head towards the frantic voice. He began to focus on his surroundings, taking inventory: _fluorescent lighting, stark white walls, metal tables. St Bart's. Right._ He breathed in rapidly and felt his ribs ache. _Cold air, formaldehyde. Autopsy room._ His grey-blue eyes finally came to rest on a pair of golden brown ones. _Pathologist. Molly._

"It's okay, it's okay," she chanted softy, her surprisingly strong hands holding him down to the metal table. He breathing, once rapid and desperate, slowed. His heart rate responded in kind, and he closed his eyes as he focused on Molly's soothing tone. 

"You're okay, it's okay. It worked...it worked...it's going to be okay, Sherlock...just breathe...that's it..." Molly continued her soft refrain until she felt his shoulders relax under her palms. She gently released her grip and traced her fingers across his furrowed brow. "Everyone's safe. It's going to be okay."

Sherlock opened his eyes slowly and found his voice. "I think it is going to be anything but _okay_ , Molly," he croaked, once again attempting to rise to a sitting position. This time, she helped him. He gingerly swung his legs over the side of the autopsy table and winced. _Immortality and analgesia are not mutually exclusive, then_. He closed his eyes against the pain, and immediately saw John's face, desperately staring down at his broken, blood-soaked body, the medication ensuring that Sherlock’s eyes would have no choice but to remain open, to witness the anguish he was putting his best friend through. He had never felt so desperately helpless in his entire life, lying there on the sidewalk, paralyzed, feeling his heart slow to a stop, and listening to the panicked cries of John Watson as a cold blackness finally overtook him-

Sherlock shook his head violently, an attempt to physically force the image from his mind. Molly nervously cleared her throat. "Sherlock," she began timidly, "you should know, before...well, okay...I don't think you're going to like this, but -" 

"Of course he isn't going to like this, Dr. Hooper," a voice responded smoothly from the corner of the morgue. "Family reunions aren't really Sherlock's proverbial 'cup of tea', as they say."

Sherlock snapped his head up and glared at the tall, well-dressed man who had emerged from the shadows. "That's why I drink coffee," he responded petulantly. "What are you doing here, Mycroft?"

Mycroft Holmes smiled thinly at his younger brother. "I'm here to offer my assistance, of course. As usual." 

Sherlock hopped of the table, a bit too quickly, as he felt the room began to tilt and spin. He grabbed the edge of the table with one hand as Molly reached out and caught him around his middle. He glowered darkly at Mycroft. "And as usual, I decline," he responded frostily. He turned to Molly, his eyes flaring. "What did you tell him? Why did you let him in here?" he hissed at her angrily. Molly shook her head, quickly dropping her hands from his waist, back down to her sides. "I- I didn't tell him anything," she stuttered nervously. "He knew, Sherlock. He...knows a lot of things, actually. I know you don't want to hear it, but I really do think he may be able to help."

"Dr. Hooper is right, Sherlock," Mycroft said, as he made his way over to the autopsy table. "I'm afraid you're in a bit over your head, brother dear," he continued nonchalantly, as he opened his briefcase, removing the contents and placing them on the metal tray before them. 

Molly peered down at the two items in front of her: a standard file folder, and what appeared to be a very old, leather- encased journal. She looked at Sherlock quizzically, but he was too busy glaring at Mycroft to notice. She rolled her eyes. _Sometimes being an only child does has its advantages_ , she thought. She turned her gaze to Mycroft.

"What is this?" she asked, gesturing to the tray. Mycroft flicked his eyes over her briefly, the look on his face subtly indicating that she had been weighed, measured, and found wanting. _Must be in the Holmes DNA_. He offered her a tight, condescending smile. "Required reading, Dr. Hooper. It's-"

"A journal that belonged to one of our ancestors," Sherlock cut in, never taking his eyes off of his brother. "Edward Campbell, the fourth Earl of Sussex." Molly couldn't help but raise her eyebrows. _Of course they come from nobility. Explains a lot, actually._ She carefully traced the cracked spine of the journal, and inexplicably shuddered. Something told her that this wasn't a book of fairy tales. 

"This is a very different book of fairy tales, Dr. Hooper, " Mycroft's smarmy voice broke in. Molly looked at him in surprise. _Did I say that out loud? No, if course I didn't. Jesus Christ… I have to deal with two of them now?_ She shook her head slightly, and turned to look at Sherlock, choosing to deal with devil she knew. _Heh. Irony. Good one, Molly._

"May I?" she asked Sherlock, gesturing to the dusty journal. He finally looked at her. "Be my guest," he answered flatly. She brushed off his cold tone, choosing to attribute it to the presence of Mycroft, rather than anything she did or said. _After all,_   _I'm only helping you to fake your own death, you right git._

Molly reached for the journal and began to flip through the pages. A coldness seeped through her chest as she skimmed through the words and sketches contained in the yellowed pages. Latin phrases jumped out, as did the faded inked illustrations of...well, monsters. There was no better way to describe them. Vampires, demons, strange symbols... _Jesus Christ, is that a picture of a werewolf??_ Molly continued to skim through the book, regretting her decision to open it in the first place, but finding herself unable to stop reading. 

"This... these...this...it's all real? All of it?" Molly stuttered. Mycroft sighed, almost imperceptibly. "I'm afraid so, Dr. Hooper," he responded in a faintly annoyed tone. "Our ancestor the Earl was...odd, to say the least. Never married, never sired children. He died before the age of forty, violently. The exact circumstances of his death remain a mystery, though once you read through his journal, it isn't hard to deduce what those circumstances might have been."

Molly lowered her eyes back to the musty pages in her hands as Mycroft continued. "He fancied himself a 'hunter' of sorts," he said. "This journal contains incantations, potions...'spells', for lack of a more imaginative term. Methods of eliminating supernatural predators." Molly nodded absently. She was turning the pages yet again when suddenly she stopped, her eyes coming to rest on one particular drawing. It was an intricately designed circle, of sorts, with a pentagram in the center. _I've seen this before. Where have I seen this before? Wait...oh. OH._

She looked up, a faint blush on her cheeks. Both brothers were watching her: Sherlock, curiously, and Mycroft, knowingly. _Shit_. 

Mycroft smiled at her, clearly amused, and handed her the file. Molly snatched it quickly from his grasp, placing the journal back on the tray. She opened the plain manila folder and glanced at the top document. A photograph of a middle-aged, bearded man was unceremoniously stapled to the top of a dossier. Sherlock leaned into her shoulder slightly, and they both began to scan the record together.

"His name is Bobby Singer," Mycroft started. "American. As you can see, he has several aliases. Often poses as law enforcement, mostly FBI. If you'll turn to page two," he instructed smoothly, "you'll find a list of his known associates." Molly shuffled to the next paper. Indeed, it was simply a list of names, nearly extending the entire length of the paper:

 

Rufus Turner

Pamela Barnes

Martin Creaser

Lon Jefferson

Missouri Mosely

Ellen Harvelle

Sam Winchester

William Harvelle- Deceased.

Gordon Walker- Deceased. 

Steve Wandell- Deceased.

Daniel Elkins - Deceased.

John Winchester - Deceased. 

Dean Winchester- Deceased. 

 

_Dean Winchester is saved._

 

Molly's breath hitched softly, and when she glanced up, she was dismayed to find that Mycroft was _again_ looking at her with that ( _completely obnoxious, extremely smug, so very Holmes-ish_ ) expression. "Indeed, Dr. Hooper," he said deliberately. "I believe you may be familiar with the content on page three..."

Molly slowly turned the page. It was just one picture, clearly a surveillance photo, of two men in their late twenties-to-early thirties. Both were dressed casually, in flannel shirts and jeans. The picture must have been snapped in the midst of a very serious conversation, with the taller of the two furrowing his brow deeply, while the shorter one was staring off into space, a vaguely haunted expression in his eyes.  

"Sam and Dean Winchester," Mycroft explained. "Though, when you met them, Dr. Hooper, I believe they introduced themselves as Special Agent Kirk and Special Agent McCoy with the FBI." Sherlock shot Molly a sharp look. She shrunk slightly. "Yes, um, well, it - it was about a year ago," she stammered. "It was in San Francisco, I had been invited to present a case study at the AAFS conference - those mysterious maulings in Lewisham? Remember?" she asked, turning toward Sherlock. He simply snorted. _Of course he remembers, you bloody idiot_. Molly took a steadying breath before she continued. "They approached me after my presentation. They said they were from the FBI, they were investigating a similar case nearby...they just asked me a few questions about the autopsies... It all seemed very...official. They had badges. They gave me a business card with their director's name, in case I had any questions..." Molly trailed off, and felt a sudden panic grip her belly. "I'm not in trouble, am I?" she gasped. "I- I had no reason to believe that they were anything but what they said they were! Believe me, I -"

Mycroft held up one hand. "Rest assured, Dr. Hooper, you are not in trouble," he offered smoothly. "Whatever occurred in San Francisco is, suffice to say, quite irrelevant to the situation at hand." Sherlock huffed in annoyance. "So what is the situation at hand, Mycroft?" he asked impatiently. "Please do get to the point quickly, I'm covered in blood, and I would prefer at least one hot shower before I spend the rest of my days evading the demonic factions that are attempting to drag me to Hell," he snapped, running his fingers through his hair roughly. He began shifting his weight from one foot to the other, a palpable energy slowly beginning to build in his limbs, working its way up his body. He looked ready to jump out of his skin. Molly had known Sherlock long enough to know that he was on the verge of one of his "episodes", and she certainly hoped she wasn't going to be on the receiving end of his impending explosion. _I've had enough of that for one lifetime,_ she thought somewhat bitterly. _Long term hopes, however forlorn..._

"The point, Sherlock, is that this photo of the Winchester brothers was taken two days ago," Mycroft responded, with an equal dose of edginess in his voice. Sherlock stopped, visibly recalling the document he had just read. Mycroft smirked faintly. "Yes, little brother, you're looking at a picture of a man whom, for all intents and purposes, was killed six months ago," he affirmed. 

"Dean Winchester is saved," Molly murmured faintly. Sherlock looked at her, baffled. Mycroft simply smiled. "Yes, Dr. Hooper, it would appear so," he replied calmly. "By whom, or what, we don't know. Which is why you two will be traveling to America tomorrow." Both Sherlock and Molly stared at Mycroft in shock for a few seconds before they both began to object, rapidly talking over each other in anxious tones.

"Mycroft, don't be ridiculous, there is no-"

"America? Wait, I can't leave, I have a job -

" - furthermore, I refuse to place Molly in any more danger than -"

" - and my cat, I just can't leave Toby - "

Mycroft again raised one hand. "It's already done," he said loudly, attempting to drown out their protests. They both fell silent, though Sherlock continued to glare at his brother with utter contempt.  Mycroft smiled placidly and continued. "Dr. Hooper, before today is over, you will be granted a one-year sabbatical from St. Bart's pathology department," he clarified. "With full pay, of course. You will be traveling to America in attempt to start fresh, as my brother's untimely death has surely rendered you heartbroken, and in need of a change of scenery." Molly opened her mouth to dissent yet again, but Mycroft cut her off. "Now, Dr. Hooper. If you want protection, then I'm afraid you have no other option," he pronounced. "You will become a target, I'm afraid to say. The safest place for you is in the company of the people who know these situations the best. That includes Singer and the Winchesters. And, I'm loathe to admit, my little brother."

Sherlock scowled at Mycroft hostilely. "Mycroft, this is absurd," he spat. "It's completely unnecessary. Once Molly signs off on my autopsy, and I am declared dead, then the threat is gone. Moriarty wanted me dead, and that's what he got, " Sherlock continued, allowing a hint of dejection to temper his vehemence. "The deal I struck ensures that my friends will stay safe, and that's all that matters.”

Mycroft took a step forward and stared down at his brother with a cold, calculating gaze. "And are you sure of that, Sherlock?" he asked quietly. "You're putting your trust in a demon? How can you be confident that it will keep its end of the bargain?"

"I'm putting my trust in contract law, actually."

 Mycroft narrowed his eyes. "I know this is a difficult concept for you to comprehend," he began condescendingly, "but the earth does not revolve around Sherlock Holmes." Mycroft smirked. "Though, a basic understanding of the solar system should would have clued you in to that fact."

Sherlock's eyes flared, and for a moment, Molly thought he was going to punch Mycroft right in his self-satisfied face. But apparently, he decided to take the high road, as he stayed silent and rigid, waiting for his brother to continue.  

"There are bigger things transpiring," Mycroft continued. "And somehow, the Winchester brothers are the center of it. All of the chatter, all the Intel we've collected...it all comes back to them. I'm not too proud to say that we need your help, Sherlock. And the Winchesters need your help too, they just don't know it yet." Mycroft exhaled, and if Molly wasn't mistaken, he appeared to soften slightly. He paused and cleared his throat. "Sherlock...if what we suspect is true, then Dean Winchester may be the only person to ever escape from Hell after signing his soul over to a demon," he revealed slowly. "Perhaps he has some information that could be...useful to you." Mycroft gazed at the floor quickly, but not before Molly caught a surprising _(very surprising_ ) flicker of emotion in his eyes. She wondered if Sherlock caught it, too. 

"A car is waiting out back to take you Dr. Hooper's flat, where you'll stay the night. Your flight to South Dakota leaves at oh-eight- hundred tomorrow morning from Brize Norton, " Mycroft continued. Molly's eyes bugged out. "Whoa, wait - why my flat?" she sputtered. Horrifying images of Sherlock scanning her toiletries and deducing her bathroom habits flooded her brain. "Isn't, there isn't - there must be a better, a safer place?" she practically pleaded. 

"I can assure you, Dr. Hooper, that your flat has been secured," Mycroft explained. "It's only for one night. You'll have the opportunity to pack, and to say goodbye to your cat, whom, by the way, will be cared for in your absence." Mycroft grabbed the journal and the file and placed them back into his briefcase. "Come, Sherlock, the car is waiting," he ordered. To Molly's extreme surprise, Sherlock actually did as he was told, forgoing his usual snark and defiance and simply walking across the morgue and out the back door. Mycroft turned towards Molly. "Now, Dr. Hooper, I believe you have an autopsy to perform?" he asked, arching an eyebrow. Molly stared at him, dumbfounded. "I - well, there's no body. I can't perform an autopsy without a body," she stated numbly. Mycroft gave her one last thin, condescending smile. "Of course, Dr. Hooper, " he replied. "I believe you'll find the necessary...supplies to complete the task in drawer number 12." He nodded slightly at her, and followed his brother to the car. 

Molly stared at the backdoor as it slammed shut, leaving her alone in the autopsy room. Her mind and body were practically frozen, unable to fully process the information that Mycroft had presented to them. She shook her head, in an attempt to clear her thoughts, as she headed over to the bank of drawers on the wall. _Drawer twelve. Here it is_. She gripped the handle, and pulled the drawer out in one smooth motion. The clang of the metal tray echoed through the empty morgue, and Molly found herself gazing at the zippered body bag with her heart in her throat. Her fingers trembled slightly as she reached out and slowly unzipped the bag. She looked down, and the lifeless face of Jim Moriarty stared back. 

 _Of course. Right_.  _On with it then, Molly._

She quickly moved the body to the autopsy table and prepared her instruments. She gowned, gloved, masked, and stood over the body, scalpel in hand, ready to begin making the necessary Y incision to open the chest. She closed her eyes, pausing briefly to steady her breathing and calm her thoughts. 

  _Here goes nothing, Hooper_. 

 She pressed “record” on the Dictaphone, signaling the official start of the autopsy. Her voice barely trembled as she launched into her ( _false, fraudulent, CRIMINAL)_ dictation. 

 

"Case number 3897, 31- year- old Caucasian male, patient name Sherlock Holmes, preliminary cause of death blunt force trauma, suspected manner of death, suicide….”

 

_Gods, I’m going to need a drink when I get home._

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I swear, this was only supposed to be a 5000 word story about demonic possession, coupled with ten- to- fifteen minutes of mutual masturbation. Clearly, this fic has gotten away from me.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Molly's long day is about to get longer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A lighter chapter, to cleanse the palate. A sorbet, if you will.

Molly dragged herself up the steps to her flat, one at a time, slowly and with extreme effort. The autopsy took every last ounce of energy she had left ( _which wasn't much to begin with, anyway_.) If she weren't so emotionally drained by the experiences of the past few days, she would have been fascinated by the findings of the postmortem: every organ was practically liquefied with decay. Richard Brook had probably been dead for at least two years, if her estimations were correct. Pronounced fractures at the axis and atlas of the spinal column indicated that he likely died from a broken neck. Of course, none of that could go into the autopsy report. Molly sighed, rubbing her temples vigorously. And now I have to deal with Sherlock Bloody Holmes in my flat. _Mother Mary, give me strength._

 Molly fumbled with her keys momentarily as she eyed the door to her flat warily. _Seems quiet_. She sniffed the air. _Nothing's burning. That's good_. She slid the key into the deadbolt and pushed her way into her darkened flat, slowly and cautiously. 

 "Hey...are you here?" she called out quietly, careful not to call out a dead man's name.  She was greeted by silence and complete darkness. She shut the door behind her and slid her hand up the switch plate on the wall, filling the tiny sitting room with light.

 "Ho-ly Jesus!" Molly gasped. There was Sherlock, sitting on the sofa, reclined against the back, fingertips pressed firmly beneath his chin. Her heart hammered in her chest. "Sherlock, you scared me!" she cried breathlessly, pressing her hand to her sternum. He didn't move. As a matter of fact, he gave no indication that he was aware that Molly was even in the room, let alone speaking to him. She gawked at him for a few more seconds, before taking notice of the rest of the room.

 Her favorite wingback chair was flipped over onto its side, the lamp next to it smashed to pieces. The mug she had left on the end table days ago was also upended, cold tea spilling down the side of the table and pooling onto the floor. _What the hell happened here?!_

 "Sherlock! What the hell happened here?!" Molly demanded. More silence. Molly felt her fear give way to annoyance as she stomped over him, hands on hips. "Sherlock! Answer me!" Still nothing. It was as if she were a ghost. He gave absolutely no acknowledgment of her presence as he continued to stare off into space, his brow furrowed in deep concentration.

  _Oh, no. Not here. Not in my flat._ Before she realized what she was doing, she reached out and angrily flicked Sherlock in the ear. He jumped and yelped slightly, clapping his hand to the side of his head, and finally looked up at Molly's stormy face.

 "Ah, what was that for?" he exclaimed childishly, rubbing his ear as if he had been shot. Molly gaped at him, incredulous. "Are you serious?" she cried. "Sherlock, my sitting room has been trashed! And you're sitting here, in the dark, ignoring me, like nothing is out of the ordinary!"

 "Molly, don't be so dramatic," Sherlock said, rolling his eyes. "A chair on its side and a broken lamp hardly constitutes a 'trashed' sitting room."

 "That's not the point! Sherlock, why did they get knocked over in the first place?" _Holy shit, is this what John Watson dealt with for all those months?_

 Sherlock settled back into the cushions of the couch and once again assumed his thinking pose. "It's nothing, the chair got in my way," he said dismissively. His eyes began to glaze over again, and Molly knew he was retreating back into that mind of his. _The chair got...are you kidding me??_ She stared at him for a few more seconds before throwing her hands up in defeat. _Fuck it. I give up._ She dropped her purse and her coat on the sofa next to him and promptly made her way to the wine in the refrigerator, uncorking it and taking a huge gulp straight from the bottle. _I'm going to need more of this_. She stood over the sink, her fingers tensing and relaxing on the neck of the wine bottle, as she stared out of the small kitchen window. The sky was dark, and she was momentarily confused. _Is it 6:30 pm or 6:30am? What day is it? What...what the fuck just happened?_

 Suddenly, a level of fatigue that she hadn’t felt since her medical school rotations overcame Molly. Taking another deep swig of chardonnay, she carefully lowered her forehead to the edge of the cool porcelain sink and closed her eyes, steeping in the mental and physical exhaustion from the events of the past several days. _I could actually fall asleep right here;_ she thought drowsily, the stirrings of slumber beginning to creep across her forehead. 

 "Sam or Dean?" the deep voice asked directly in her ear, jolting her upright, sending the wine bottle crashing to the tile below. Molly gasped and spun around, only to find Sherlock standing inches away from her. For the second time in five minutes, Molly's pulse points nearly exploded in shock. 

 "Will you STOP IT!?!" she yelled, pushing him away roughly. Sherlock stumbled back, momentarily stunned by her sudden aggression. Molly caught her breath. "S-sorry," she mumbled. "You just...you keep startling me." He watched her as she slowly exhaled, curiosity dancing across his features...and something else that Molly couldn't quite put her finger on. _And I really don't have the energy to try to put my finger on anything at the moment._ She rubbed her eyes roughly with both hands before gazing at the smashed glass on the kitchen floor. Groaning, she lowered herself the tile and began picking up the shards. 

 To her surprise, Sherlock stooped over quickly to help. _Well, it's the least he can do, I suppose. The prat has broken no less than four of my possessions in a span of one afternoon._ "I am sorry, Molly, " he offered smoothly. "I should be more considerate of your heightened senses. I'll try not to startle you anymore." 

 Molly sighed. "It's...it's okay, Sherlock," she said blearily. "It's not your fault, you're just being... _you_." She stood and deposited the broken glass into the trashcan. He followed suit, grabbing a tea towel in the process and crouching back down to mop up the remainder of the wine. Molly watched him with eyebrows raised, temporarily unnerved by Sherlock's uncharacteristic...consideration. She smiled slightly, almost forgetting how frustrated she had been with him moments prior. 

 "You didn't answer me," Sherlock said, as he finished wiping up the floor. He tossed the wine-soaked flannel into the sink and turned toward her, boring those insanely blue eyes into her dark ones. "Was it Sam or Dean?"

 The frustration that Molly nearly forgot about came rushing back like a tidal wave. _He knew. Of course he knew._ "I don't understand the question," she snapped peevishly. Sherlock narrowed his eyes. "I'll rephrase," he said, clearly amused. "Which one did you bring back to your hotel room after he bought you three cosmopolitans and a shot of high-end tequila?"

 Molly nearly choked on her own spit. "That- that is NONE of your business!" she sputtered. "How DARE you, there's no way that you could even... even suggest that I...oh, sod it." She buried her blazing face in her hands and groaned. "How could you _possibly_ know it was three cosmos and a tequila?" she muffled into her hands.

 She peeked through her fingers to see Sherlock holding his hand out to her, a white business card between his fingers. "This is the business card the ‘agent’ in question gave you that night, " he began. "Most likely to ease your trepidation about providing them with details from the Lewisham autopsies. He encouraged you to call his director if you had any concerns." He turned the card over in his fingers deftly, presenting the backside for Molly to see. "He also wrote his mobile number on the back, but as you can see, it's been mostly washed away by a pink liquid."

 Sherlock’s cadence began to pick up speed as he continued the analysis. "You're not one for hard liquor, but you were craving something stronger that night. You likely asked the bartender for a recommendation, and given your age and obvious single status, he assumed that you were a fan of _Sex and the City_ , thus _cosmopolitan._ You were halfway through your first drink when ‘Special Agent Winchester’ sat down on your right. He ordered you another round. You weren't particularly enjoying the drink, but you didn't want to seem impolite, so you accepted." Molly could only stare at him, frozen in shock, mouth slightly ajar. Of course, she had seen him do this before, and had been on the receiving end more times than she cared to remember, but she still never got used to it. He was maddeningly, frighteningly, unnervingly, ( _gorgeously_ ) brilliant, and she both loved and hated him for it. 

 Sherlock was clearly enjoying himself as he continued, his eyes bright, his mouth moving a mile a minute. "Two drinks is your typical limit, so the clumsy spill on the back of the card indicates that you consumed another round." He moved forward slightly, and flicked his eyes down her body, causing Molly’s heart to leap. _"_ Three alcoholic beverages consumed over a short period of time by a woman of your weight, age, and stature would yield a blood alcohol content of roughly .18%.  Your inhibitions would be considerably lowered," he murmured, and something in his tone made Molly shiver, in spite of her anger and discomfort. "You were clearly enjoying the company, or else you wouldn't have accepted the drink purchases," Sherlock continued. "And a man doesn't buy a strange woman two drinks and a shot of tequila if he doesn't have something a bit more…carnal in mind,” he offered with a knowing smirk.

 Molly's face burned as she fought the urge to rear back and wail him in the face. She took one slow, angry breath, and exhaled it with seething precision. "And how did you know about the tequila?" she asked icily, holding her head up high. His grin widened. "I watched you drink three whiskey sodas at the last NSY holiday party and then try to get anyone who would listen to do a tequila shot with you," he answered with amusement. "Drinking patterns tend to stick, especially when one is in an unfamiliar situation." 

 " _An unfamiliar situation_? So, you're saying that I don't get laid that often, is that it?" Molly snapped. Sherlock smartly chose to ignore her comment, instead looking down at the business card still in his hand. "Finally, the fact that you still have this card after nearly two years indicates that you likely consummated the encounter, and kept the card as a sentimental souvenir," he concluded, and that strange look was on his face again. He took a breath and looked up. "Did I get anything wrong?" he asked, in a tone that obviously indicated that he knew he bloody well didn't.

 Molly stared at him, hundreds of emotions coursing through her veins, each one urging her to lash out and cause him bodily harm, one way or another. "No," she answered coldly. "Now, to answer your question, I have no idea if it was Sam or Dean. He gave me a fake name, remember? He said his name was Special Agent Kirk, that's all I know...." she narrowed her eyes briefly. "Wait...let me see that card again," she demanded, snatching it out of Sherlock's fingers. 

 She glanced down at the card, reading the typeface with new eyes.  _Federal Bureau of Investigation, San Francisco Division. Special Agent in Charge, Leonard Roddenberry._ She groaned.

 "Oh, Jesus, how could I have been so daft? Of course they were fake." Sherlock peered at her quizzically. Molly looked at him, a pointed expression on her face. "The names they gave me.  Agent Kirk. Agent McCoy, " she explained slowly. She waved the card in his face. "This was their field 'director's' business card. _Gods,_ I'm such an idiot," Molly cried, clapping her hand across her eyes for effect. 

 Sherlock stared at her, mildly baffled. "I fail to see how any of this indicates an alias," he said bemusedly. Molly peered at him from between her fingers. 

 " _Star Trek_ , Sherlock. Gene Roddenberry, Bones McCoy, Captain Kirk..." Molly trailed off as Sherlock continued to stare at her blankly. "You have no idea what I'm talking about, do you?"

 "No."

Molly sighed. "Right. Well, it's a science fiction television show from the 1960's that they made into movies," she explained. "Have you really never heard of _Star Trek_ before?"

"If I have, I've deleted it. Science fiction media offends me."

"Of course it does," Molly responded wearily. She glimpsed down at the card in her hand again. "Wait...where did you get this?" she asked slowly.

"Your bedside table."

"My bedside ta - you...you went into my room. You went through my things." It was a statement, not a question. Sherlock cleared his throat, at least having the decency to look slightly abashed. 

"I was simply...collecting data."

"Data," she snorted. "Right. Collecting data." She spun back to the refrigerator and swung the door open violently. _There has to be another bottle of wine in here somewhere._

 _"_ I'm afraid that was the last bottle of wine, though you have an opened carafe of overpriced vodka in the bottom of your bedroom closet."

 Molly slammed the door with such force that every item in the refrigerator rattled and clanged. She was literally speechless with anger.   _If I stay out here any longer, I may kill him. Which would completely negate all the hard work I did today._ She stared at him for a few seconds before pushing past him roughly, heading to her bedroom in a silent rage, leaving Sherlock standing alone in the tiny kitchen.

 "A bit not good, " he muttered to himself as Molly flung her bedroom door open. She stopped at the threshold and turned suddenly. “Oh, and by the way,” she spat venomously. “How is it that you’ve never heard of _Star Trek_ , but you know that they drink cosmos on _Sex and the City_?” With that, Molly waltzed into her room, slamming the door behind her with tremendous energy, the reverberation causing Sherlock to wince slightly.

 

_A bit not good, indeed._


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Molly's frustrations reach a breaking point, and this story finally earns its "Explict" rating.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here Lies Kate
> 
> She Died of Embarrassment
> 
> From Writing This Chapter.
> 
> RIP.

The force of the slamming door rippled through her room, jangling her perfume bottles and glass figurines, knocking her Thomas Kincaid picture off her wall, and sending the framed photo of her mum and dad tumbling off her bedside table. Molly cringed. _Okay...that may have been a bit much._ She was aware that she was likely overreacting, an action she chalked up to her extreme fatigue and even more extreme set of circumstances. She bent over and scooped up the picture of her parents, gazing at it forlornly. They beamed at the camera, dressed in their early 1980s finery, full of youth and excitement; Molly's dad was resting his hand on his young wife's pregnant belly, her brown eyes sparkling with happiness. _It was our first family photo, really,_ Molly thought with a smile, as tears pricked the corners of her eyes. 

Theresa Kelley-Hooper had been killed in an automobile accident when Molly was three, and her memories of her mum were hazy, at best.  Molly had studied enough photos of her mother to know that she was nearly the spitting image of her, right down to the smattering of freckles across her nose. Edmund Hooper must have towered over his bride, a larger- than- life man who had an even larger personality. There wasn't a soul alive who ever had a bad word to say about the friendly and gregarious man who had raised his only child with such love and pride. He always had smile on his face and a song on his lips, even in the face of a devastating pancreatic cancer diagnosis. And when he succumbed to the disease seven years ago, the line of mourners at his wake had nearly circled the building twice over, a true testament to the type of life Eddie Hooper had chosen to live. 

Molly exhaled slowly and placed the picture frame back on her bedside table. A sharp knock suddenly sounded on her door, causing her to jump. She rolled her eyes at her own skittishness, and wondered briefly if she was ever going to feel calm again, knowing that the world was actually a scarier and more horrific place than she ever could have possibly imagined. 

"Molly. Please. I am sorry." Sherlock's voice carried through the door. Molly closed her eyes, both in fatigue and defeat. "Sherlock, please go away, " she responded wearily. "I really can't...I just ...really can't. Not right now."

There was brief pause before he answered roughly. "No."

Molly's blood began to simmer. "It wasn't a request, Sherlock, " she snapped. "I'm done for tonight. I'm exhausted and hurting and I'm not in the mood to be your primary source of amusement." She roughly yanked the elastic out of her hair and shook her ponytail loose. Grabbing her robe and a flannel, she wrenched the door open. There he stood, one hand gripping the doorframe, the other grasping the back of his hair anxiously. Even in her anger, she couldn't help but admire how bloody gorgeous he was. Which made her even angrier. _How DARE he be this attractive?_ Shaking her head slightly, she started to push past him, desperate to stand underneath the hot spray of her shower and wash the past few days down the drain and into the sewers of London, where they most certainly belonged.

Sherlock didn't budge, continuing to block her path as he stared at her with a deep intensity. Molly's ire grew in spades. "Sherlock - _move,"_ she demanded through gritted teeth. _Is this some sort of experiment? Is he trying to see how long it takes to give me an aneurysm?_ She raised her hand to physically push him out of the way, but before she could make contact, he reached out and snatched her by the wrist. 

 _Oh, what the FUCK_. "Let. Me. GO," Molly demanded heatedly, her heart pounding. Somewhere, deep and low in her belly, she felt something stir. _Knock it off!_ she demanded to her traitorous body. _I'm ANGRY, and besides, I'm OVER HIM. I've been over him for months!_ She tugged her arm back sharply, but Sherlock held fast, tightening his fingers around her delicate wrist. He stared at her silently, and somewhat wildly, his respiratory rate increasing with each passing second. 

Molly stared right back, indignant and confused and frustrated and _okay, MAYBE just a little bit turned on,_ and she once again struggled to yank her arm free from his grasp. It was a futile attempt, as he was clearly too strong. Molly was about to consider a more painfully effective means of escape involving her knee and his groin, when Sherlock seemed to break from his reverie, nodding his head sharply as if he had come to some sort of conclusion. Before Molly could register what was happening, he tugged her forward, sweeping his free arm around her waist to press her flush against his body, and crashed his lips to hers. 

 _Stunned_  didn't even begin to describe Molly's reaction, or lack thereof. She wasn't even sure if there was an adequate word in the English language to aptly describe the torrent of emotions and sensations that were coursing through her body at that moment, as Sherlock deepened the kiss, tracing her bottom lip with the tip of his tongue, begging for entrance. 

Her mouth seemed to act on it's own volition as she parted her lips and tangled her tongue with his, pressing her hips forward eagerly even as her conscience urged her to stop. _What is he playing at?_ She grabbed his head with both hands and pulled him down harder, arching her back and pushing her breasts against him firmly, eliciting a somewhat surprised moan from the back of his throat. _This must be another one of his experiments_. She ground her pelvis against his, feeling him harden against her lower abdomen, the dull ache in her core beginning to throb and ( _Jesus-Fucking-Christ- Mother-Mary)_ damn near explode as he slid his mouth to the sensitive junction of her clavicle and throat and sucked hard. 

She gasped and cradled his head as he continued to nip and suck at her neck and collarbone. _He needs a distraction. He's using you, Molly. Don't be an idiot._ He fumbled with the buttons of her cardigan without breaking contact with her skin, undoing them hastily before slipping the cherry-printed jumper off her shoulders and onto the floor. _He thinks he can just get away with it, now that he knows that you'll fuck on the first date._ She lifted her arms, dizzy from lust and anger and probably a little bit of oxygen deprivation, and he frantically pulled her camisole over her head and went to work on her bra, fumbling around her back, searching for the clasp. 

"It closes in the front," Molly was able to gasp, bringing her shaking fingers up to the clasp of the bra and popping it open deftly. _Way to make it easy for him, you twit!_ He pulled the straps down roughly, stripping the garment from her body and tossing it blindly over his shoulder, into her sitting room. He suddenly stopped as his eyes fell to her naked chest. He held his breath for a moment, regarding her breasts ( _too small, remember Molly?_ ), before diving at her again like a starving man at a feast. He captured her mouth roughly, cupping the sides of her face, and despite her best intentions, she couldn't help but release a whine of pleasure against his lips. 

 _When are you going to stop letting him use you, Molly?_ Her internal war continued as she roughly pulled at his shirt, undoing the buttons with a dexterous speed that surprised even her. _You know he's only doing this because he has proof another man has been there before._ His shirt hit the ground and she spun him away from the door, walking him backwards toward her bed before roughly pushing him down on the mattress. His back hit the center of the bed with a bounce, and she wasted no time pouncing on his belt buckle. _He doesn't want you, Molly; he just doesn't want anyone ELSE to have you._ She ripped the belt off his waist and flung it far across the room. She heard the tinkling of glass breaking as she realized the buckle must have collided with her porcelain cat collection. She could scarcely muster the energy to care as she leaned over the button of his trousers, popping it open with one hand as the other worked his zip down with haste. _He's marking his territory, so to speak. You're better than this._ She paused for a moment and leaned the heel of her palm against the hard ridge of his still-clothed erection. He gasped at the sudden contact, and Molly grinned wickedly.

And just like that, the angel on her shoulder disappeared. _So what if he's using you? That can go both ways, you know._ She slid both hands to his waistband and tugged his trousers and pants down roughly past his knees, off his legs. Those, too, went flying across the bedroom, landing in an unknown location.  _You're risking your life for him. You deserve something in return._ She stepped out of her own trousers and pants quickly, and crawled up his supine body, making sure to drag her tits over his hardened cock before licking a hot trail from his stomach to his neck. He groaned helplessly, his hips thrusting upward, practically begging her for more contact.  She planted her knees on either side of his pelvis and buried her face in his shoulder, biting down hard as slid his hands down her back and across her arse. _This is least he can do, actually. After all, he broke your favorite lamp, for Chrissakes._

Molly captured his mouth with hers, catching his bottom lip between her teeth with unbridled enthusiasm. He responded in kind, grabbing her by the back of her head and snaking his tongue with hers, kissing her desperately, frantically. A wanton moan escaped from her throat when he suddenly lifted his hips again, the head of his cock barely brushing against her wetness. At that moment, all the resentment, doubt, and confusion Molly had been feeling melted away and was replaced with one clear-eyed, singular goal: to bury his cock inside of her as quickly as possible and ride him until she broke him in half. 

She grabbed his wrists and pinned them above his head. His eyes practically glowed with desire, and then nearly rolled back into his head as she rocked her hips forward slowly, the hard ridge of his prick sliding through her wet folds, teasing him tortuously. She repeated the move, this time stopping just as the head of his cock slipped over her clit, sending a violent shiver through her body. She released her grip on his right wrist, sliding her hand down his surprisingly well-muscled chest and taking him in her palm, giving him several firm strokes as she guided him to her entrance.  

"Wait, Molly," Sherlock panted. "I don't have any -"

"Birth control pills," Molly breathed in reply. "And I'm clean." She leaned forward, brushing her breasts over his lips as she lowered her mouth to his ear. "And I trust you," she whispered, planting a soft kiss behind his earlobe. He shivered slightly and nodded his assent, apparently unable to access that vast vocabulary of his at the moment. Molly squeezed his erection firmly, and lowered her hips back, easing her damp core down his shaft slowly, carefully, until he was completely inside of her. 

Molly paused for a few seconds, the walls of her cunt stretching and adjusting to his girth, and _holy shit, did it feel good._ She closed her eyes and held her breath, unmoving, savoring the sensation for longer than was probably polite, because honestly, _when is this going to happen again? This has one-off written all over it._

"Molly." She opened her eyes to find Sherlock staring at her, with a somewhat frenetic look on his face. " _Move,"_ he groaned, grabbing her by the hips and squeezing the flesh, hard enough to leave marks. He licked his lips, and his expression softened. " _Please,_ " he added quietly, and she couldn't help but grin. _Such manners. How can I say no to that?_

 Molly lifted up onto her knees slightly, sliding up his shaft deliberately, stopping just before he slipped out. She snapped her weight back down, the base of his cock hitting her clit and sending a lightning bolt up her spine. _Oh, shit. I'm not going to last long._ She began to ride him in earnest, rocking her hips in a smooth motion, sending jolt after jolt of indescribable pleasure through her core. She moaned loudly and wildly, aware that her neighbors could probably hear her, and giving zero fucks in the process. Sherlock gripped her hips tighter and met her thrusts with urgent ones of his own. He squeezed his eyes shut and stretched his head back, breathing raggedly as Molly slid up and down his cock with increasing urgency. 

The first stirrings of an orgasm began to coil tightly in Molly's lower abdomen as she fucked him harder. Sherlock must have sensed her impending completion, as he moved his hand off her hip and pressed two fingers to her clitoris, circling the sensitive flesh ardently. Molly cried out, pressing her pelvis toward his hand, and _oh fuck, that's it, right there._ She covered his hand with her own, pressing his fingers firmly to her clit as she rode his cock desperately, and finally tumbled over the edge, coming harder than she had in her life, her orgasm ripping through her body with an impressive force. She pulsed and spasmed around his prick, and her climax seemed to be enough for him. He gave two sharp upward thrusts and groaned loudly as he spilled himself into her, shaking and cursing as he rode out his orgasm beneath her trembling body.

Molly's legs finally gave out, and she collapsed onto Sherlock's chest, her hair falling damply across her forehead and fanning out over his shoulders. He drew his arms around her tightly and held her as he struggled to catch his breath, his muscles contracting and relaxing by their own accord. She turned her head slightly and rested her cheek on his sweaty sternum, listening to his thundering heartbeat begin to slow to a more reasonable rate. She moved her hand up the side of his face, brushing his damp curls off his forehead as he stroked her spine absently. 

Molly's eyes began to feel heavy, and she knew that if she didn't move soon, she was going to fall asleep on top of him, and something told her that Sherlock Holmes was probably not much of a cuddler. With what felt like a Herculean effort, she lifted her hips up, allowing his waning erection to slip out as she rolled off to the side. She pulled the duvet down groggily and climbed beneath it, resting her head on her favorite pillow. Sherlock turned his head and watched her as she nestled deeply into the bed, her eyelids unable to stay open one second longer.

As she floated off into a dark, dreamless sleep, she felt him trace the curves of her face with his fingertip softly, and she could have sworn she heard him whisper something that sounded a lot like "Thank you". 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock probably seemed a little OOC in this chapter (probably because he was having sex with a woman, right Anne? :P ) The next chapter is from his point of view, it hopefully will explain his actions a little more thoroughly.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock feels feelings. And thinks about shooting Molly's cat. That's not a euphemism.

 

It had truly  _not_ been his intent to have sexual intercourse with Molly Hooper.

His intent had been to study Edward Campbell's journal, to pour over each notation, each sketch, each incantation, for something,  _anything,_ to clue him in to what was on the horizon, as Mycroft had so cryptically inferred; to study the assembled dossier on Bobby Singer and his associates; to escape into his mind palace to absorb the new information, meld it with the old, to take apart and reassemble the events of the past eighteen months in order to create a newer, more concise picture.

His intent had been to simply take a shower, and not to nearly kill her cat. 

Upon entering Molly's flat, via fire escape, Sherlock had immediately made his way to the loo, dropping his bag, stripping off his bloodied and torn clothes without breaking his stride, reaching for the shower dial, turning the water on as hot as his skin could tolerate, and standing under the spray with his forehead against the cool tile of Molly's shower, attempting to empty his mind and simply concentrate on the feel of the water on his back. Of course, that had been impossible - the only thing that had ever truly stilled his thoughts was contained in a seven-percent solution and a hypodermic syringe. A hot shower, while soothing, simply lacked the potency and conviction of intravenous narcotics. 

After several minutes of attempting to calm his racing mind, Sherlock had given up, turning the water off with a weary sigh. He had dried off with one of Molly's flannels ( _pink, embroidered with blue chickens, smelling of lavender fabric softener_ ) and gotten dressed in the clean clothes Mycroft had managed to confiscate from Baker Street. He had just finished fastening the last button on his black shirt when he heard it: a low, ominous growl. Barely audible, deriving from the sitting room. Sherlock froze, realizing too late that he had dropped the Colt absentmindedly on the kitchen table after climbing through the small, warped window.  _Stupid._ In his extreme fatigue, and haste to scrub himself clean of the day’s events, he had left his best means of defense nearly 30 feet away from his person, and in plain view, no less. Though Mycroft had assured him that Molly's flat had been secured from demonic invasion via the proper symbols and incantations, that didn't mean another equally dangerous creature couldn't have gained entrance. 

Sherlock had slowly opened the door of the loo, and peered out into the shadowed sitting room. Though it was daylight, the small flat was rather dark, the only source of light streaming in through a singular window, which was covered by heavy, floral-printed curtains. He had held his breath and listened. After several seconds of heavy silence, he heard it again: starting low and deep, ending with a soft, high-pitched whine, it had seemed to be emanating from the far corner of Molly's sitting room, roughly five yards from where the Colt lie in the kitchen. Sherlock tensed, and in a split second, he had mapped out the fastest, most direct route to the antique pistol. In the absence of a full complement of data (namely, what type of creature was stalking him), Sherlock had estimated his chances of reaching the Colt in a timely manner and dispatching the offending intruder to be at 45%, with an alarmingly wide margin of error of twelve points. 

Taking a deep breath, Sherlock had sprung into action, racing towards the kitchen, vaulting over a plaid chair in the process, and hitting the ground with a roll (a violent crash sounded behind him, clearly the chair flipping, likely taking the stained glass floor lamp with it). Without breaking momentum, he had sprang up from the floor and dove for the gun, and in one swift movement, dropped to one knee and pivoted toward the sitting room, the Colt cocked and aimed toward the far corner. 

Sherlock had struggled to control his ragged breathing, his wide eyes adjusting to the dim light as he frantically searched the small flat for the predator. By that point, the inhuman growling had given way to a high- pitched yowls, punctuated with soft hisses. 

Sherlock narrowed his eyes, finally gaining control of his senses and realizing what the likely source of the noise was. _Oh, you right idiot._ He slowly rose from his knee, and still aiming the Colt into the sitting room, reached out to the wall with his free hand, flicking on the light. 

There, stuffed in the corner, underneath a piano bench, was an orange tomcat, it's back arched, tail bristled, hissing fiercely at the tall stranger with the funny-looking gun. 

 _The cat. How could I have forgotten about the bloody cat?_ Sherlock didn't know whether to laugh, punch the wall, or shoot the cat anyway. He exhaled audibly and lowered the hammer of the gun, not before giving serious consideration to the latter option, as the hateful beast was still growling away and showing no signs of stopping. Sherlock had felt some of the tension in his body dissipate as he tucked the gun securely into his waistband, crossing the floor back to the kitchen to retrieve the knapsack he had dropped earlier. 

He had settled himself on the edge of Molly's sofa ( _light blue, well-worn, likely purchased from a secondhand shop)_ , opening the knapsack and removing the journal and the file, placing both on the coffee table ( _wrought-iron, glass top, rather ornate compared to the rest of the furniture, clearly a flat- warming present from one of her girlfriends)._ He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, and stared had blankly at the documents in front of him before pushing the journal aside in favor of the black-and-white surveillance photograph of the Winchester brothers. He had studied it fiercely for several moments before drawing his conclusions.

Judging from the body language the brothers displayed, it was apparent that the shorter of the two men was also the older brother, and the haunted look that shadowed his features told Sherlock that this was Dean. The younger one (Sam) was staring at his brother with an interesting mixture of awe, grief, gratitude…and resentment (a look that Sherlock was all too familiar with, especially when it came to fraternal tensions). Given the facts Mycroft had provided to him prior, that Dean Winchester is a supposed dead man, one whom evidently escaped from Hell ( _and how DO you know that, Mycroft?_ ), and observing the way that Sam was staring at his brother in the photo, coupled with Sherlock's own recent experiences, his conclusion was hardly a difficult one to deduce.

Dean Winchester had made a deal with a demon in exchange for his brother's life. 

Satisfied, Sherlock had sunk back into the lumpy cushions of Molly's sofa and entered his mind palace, armed with this new information, and ready to start building new rooms in which to house it. 

_Now…which one had Molly slept with?_

Sherlock's eyes had snapped open at that, the rare occasion where his own subconscious took him completely and utterly by surprise. True, he had known with near immediacy that Molly had bedded one of them, the moment she had laid eyes on the anti-possession symbol inked in the pages of the Earl of Sussex's journal. The deep flush in her cheeks told him that she was recalling an intimate situation, likely with someone who had the pentagram inked on their personhood. Mycroft's smug reaction to Molly's obvious embarrassment, paired with the revelation regarding Molly's involvement with the FBI agents had lead Sherlock to the rather transparent inference. 

 _But why should it matter which one she had slept with? Molly's past sexual relations have no bearing on the case, or on me._ Sherlock frowned, glancing around the tiny flat for the first time since he broke the lock on the kitchen window. It had dawned on him, then, how little he knew about Molly Hooper. Sure, he knew the basics.  _Thirty years of age, single, exceptional intelligence, kind, thoughtful, loyal, terrible conversationalist, father is dead, has a wretched cat…_ but that's where his knowledge seemed to stop. His mind palace, so incredibly intricate and vast, contained a surprisingly small amount of information about the woman who was currently risking everything to help him. 

It had quickly become clear to Sherlock that he would not be able to concentrate on more meaningful content until he satisfied his curiosities about Molly Hooper. Rising from his seat, he began to pace the room slowly, coming to rest in front of a large mahogany bookcase.

His eyes had danced rapidly over the collection of framed photos on the shelves, and within seconds, he had gathered new information to store in the small room in his mind palace labeled "Molly": parents married young ( _orange tinted wedding portrait, youthful faces, late teens, early twenties_ ) yet had their only child in their thirties ( _conclusion: fertility issues)_ ; born in Ireland ( _parents cradling an infant outside a Catholic church in_   _County Mayo, judging by the geology_ ), immigrated to England around age three after the ( _untimely_ ) death of her mother ( _Molly and her father, with sorrow and lingering shock still in his eyes, on the banks of the Thames_ ); a bright child, started school early ( _Molly, age four, on the steps of Blessed Sacrament Catholic Primary School in Islington_ ); framed MBBS from Barts and The London College of Medicine ( _top decile_ ); three close girlfriends, one of whom being her cousin, two of them married ( _snapshots of Molly in two different, yet equally horrific bridesmaids gowns, another group shot of a hen's night_ ); father dead of cancer within the last decade ( _Molly, age 23, and her emaciated father at her medical school commencement, photograph is prominently displayed, likely the last picture taken of the two_ ).

He should have been satisfied with that. Really, how much more information was necessary? Molly was his friend. He typically enjoyed her company, even holding a certain level of affection for her terrible jokes and sweet nervous stuttering. But it was nothing more than that. So now he had her family history, and a few tidbits on her personal life. Any more data would be extraneous, cluttering up his hard drive, taking up space that should be reserved for more important information. 

So why had he found himself standing in her bedroom?

Despite what most people believed, Sherlock Holmes wasn't quite the social misfit they pegged him to be. He was well aware of what was considered proper behavior, and what was typically frowned upon. He understood boundaries, he just usually chose to ignore them. And he knew damn well that snooping through Molly Hooper's bedroom was crossing the proverbial line, but well…there he was. 

Finding the business card only verified what Sherlock had already concluded about Molly's tryst in San Francisco.  As he slid the card into his back pocket, he had felt a strange twinge in his center, the thought of Molly with another man making him feel… _making him feel what?_  

That was the question he was pondering on the sofa when he had felt a sharp sting on his left ear. He had jumped in surprise to find Molly standing over him, exasperation on her face. _When did she get here? And did she…did she just flick me in the ear?_

When he had followed her into the kitchen, he had intended to apologize for upsetting her, but the sight of her bent over her sink, her perfectly round arse sticking out so…invitingly…shocked that strategy right out of his head. He had never planned on revealing to Molly that he was aware of her secret encounter in San Francisco, yet there he was, not only telling her that he knew, but doing so in a way that was designed to shame and humiliate her. Why?  _Why?_

And as Molly had stormed off, slamming the door to her bedroom decisively, the answer that Sherlock had been seeking bubbled to the surface _,_ and it didn't surprise him, possibly because he had known it all along. 

_Because I'm jealous._

_Because I can't bear the thought of her wanting another man._

_Because I want her._

_Because…I need her._

Still…initiating sexual relations was not on the forefront of his brain as he crossed the flat and knocked on her door. He had just wanted to apologize, to make it right, to assure her that he never meant to hurt her, that he would do everything in his power to avoid hurting her in the future… then she had opened door, and time seemingly stopped. Her hair was down, tumbling softly over one shoulder, her eyes ablaze, her cheeks flushed, lips parted…

Sherlock could barely process the events as they unfolded. He had kissed her first, yes, that was a fact, but after that, his mind shut down, perhaps overloaded by the intensity of the physical stimulation he was receiving: the swell of her breasts as she arched into him; the press of her hips hardening him instantly; her hands relieving him of his shirt and pushing him down on the bed with more strength than he ever could have given her credit for; the feel of her hard nipples as they brushed over his erection and up his torso; her hand stroking his cock firmly, assuredly; the overwhelming heat and wetness of her pussy as she slid him deep inside.

The image of her small, lovely breasts bouncing as she rode him mercilessly, crying out for him and only him; the sight of her face crumpling as she came screaming, digging her nails into his hand so tightly that his skin broke; the feel of his cock pulsing against her walls as he followed suit, his orgasm tearing him apart from the seams.

Holding her trembling body tightly to his, feeling her soft cheek pressed against his heart, stroking her back, and finally, FINALLY reveling in the fact that for the first time since his last drug bender, his mind was blissfully, peacefully, wonderfully empty.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Am I happy with this chapter? Not particularly. I probably could have gone deeper ( no pun intended) into Sherlock's feelings and motivations, but I'm clearly sacrificing characterization for plot-advancement. Because honestly, I'm at 17000 words and there's nary a Winchester in sight. I've got to get this story rolling. 
> 
> And porn. I have to write more porn.


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The morning after.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What this lacks in plot is surely made up for in shameless smut. 
> 
> Special appearance by the fourth wall.

Molly awoke a little before midnight, somewhat shocked to find Sherlock still in her bed, his face buried in a pillow, with one arm flung boneless across her back. Until that moment, she wasn't entirely convinced that the man actually slept. But then again, she hadn't been totally sure he even knew what sex was, let alone that he possessed the ability to make her come in less than five minutes.  _We learn something new everyday, I suppose._

 Molly rolled over gently, carefully sliding out from under his arm. _Ooof. Definitely a bit sore._ She wrinkled her nose as she reached down, feeling the stickiness between her legs, and with a grimace, decided that the middle of the night was as good a time as any for that shower she had been longing for.

 She stood under the hot spray for several minutes, trying to make sense of the situation she found herself in, and wondered what part of it shocked her the most - that she had spent two days possessed by a demon, that supernatural creatures actually roamed the earth, or that she had just had sex with Sherlock Holmes. The jury was still out on that one as she toweled off and climbed back into bed, running her hand tenderly across his shoulder.

 He sighed in his sleep and rolled to his side, leaning his weight against her front as she slid her arm around his waist and pressed her face into his back, breathing in the salt on his skin. She truly had no idea what to expect come morning. Would things be back to normal, with Sherlock returning to his typical companionable -yet- clinically distance self? Most likely. The whole night had been extremely out of character for him (and really, for her as well. Despite what Sherlock may think, one-offs were hardly a standard practice in the social life of Molly Hooper.) 

 They had both been running on pure adrenaline. Neither of them had been thinking clearly, that much was obvious. Really, it was as simple as that. Molly sighed softly, surprised to find that she was feeling…disappointment. _But you're over him, remember?_ The corner of her mouth quirked up mirthlessly. _Yeah…that's right. I'm over him. Totally._ She sighed, and planting a soft kiss between his shoulder blades, rolled over onto her back, sinking into the comfort of her mattress as she descended into a deep, exhausted sleep once more.

                                                                        _______________________________

_"The sixteenth seal has been broken."_

 The first voice to rouse Molly from her sleep was crisp and clear. She blinked blearily in gray light of early morning. _What the…what?_ She glanced around the empty room, finding herself alone. Dropping her head back down to the pillow, she rubbed her eyes vigorously, attempting to banish any lingering drowsiness. She stretched her body, stiff and sore from both the previous night's acrobatics and nearly twelve hours of sleep.  _The sixteenth…what the hell is that supposed to mean?_

 Molly sighed, feeling troubled. If she was being totally honest, it was not the first time she had heard strange proclamations in the space between sleep and alertness. She could recall, as a child, hearing phrases, bits and pieces of speech floating through her mind as she struggled to pull herself from the tight grip of sleep. It was an odd occurrence that she always chalked up to a very vivid dream state, and she often forgot about the voices and their messages soon after she had reached a full state of consciousness. She had always assumed they were auditory hallucinations at the tail end of a REM cycle, and nothing more.  That is, until last night. Hearing that “Dean Winchester is saved”, and then finding out that, _holy shit, Dean Winchester actually WAS save_ d?  It was certainly enough to make Molly start to reevaluate those past “dreams”.

Yes, that first voice had certainly gotten her attention, waking her from her dreamless slumber. But it was the second voice she heard that vaulted her out of her bed as if her flat were on fire. 

 "No, no, NO!!" came a shout from the sitting room. Molly sprang up to a sitting position, heart thudding in her chest. _Sherlock._

She scrambled off the bed gracelessly, her foot tangling in the sheets, nearly sending her to the floor. She regained her balance quickly, stooping low to swipe a shirt off the carpet, sliding it on her arms as she flung open her bedroom door. She stared wildly into the sitting room, terrified of what kind of horror show she was going to find.

 Her panic quickly turned to relief, and then even more quickly to exasperation. There was Sherlock, clad in pyjama bottoms and a t-shirt, sitting on the edge of her couch and gesturing wildly at the telly. She caught her breath and flicked her gaze back and forth between the violent battle on the screen and Sherlock's angry face.  "Sherlock...what on _earth_ are yelling about?" she demanded, her racing heart beginning to slow, her belly unclenching. 

 Sherlock didn't even look at her as he answered her acerbically. "This _ridiculous_ film that you _insisted_ I watch-"

 "Sherlock, I never insisted you-"

 "These movie villains are always such _morons,"_ he continued vehemently, ignoring her. "All he would have to do is simply fire on the _Enterprise's_ life support system, which is _clearly_ located behind the aft nacelle, thus suffocating the crew and-"

 Molly crept towards the remote control on the couch and clicked the television off, eyeing Sherlock warily. "Ooookay," she said with faint amusement. "I see why it's not a good idea for you to watch sci-fi movies. Why don't you just go ahead and, uh, delete that?"

 "Already done," Sherlock replied.  He finally looked at her and did a small double take. Molly glanced down at her body and realized that it was his shirt she had thrown on in her rush to get out to the sitting room. She didn't have time to button it, of course, instead opting to hold it closed at her breasts with one hand. "Oh...right. Sorry," she blushed. "You just- you startled me, and I just grabbed the first shirt I could find..." She trailed off as she caught the wicked gleam in his eyes. He licked his lips and reached out with both hands, tracing his fingertips up the backs of her thighs as he pulled her closer, until she was standing between his legs. 

 "I typically don't like sharing my possessions, but I'm apt to make exceptions now and then," he murmured, drawing his hands further up, over her arse, and lightly running his fingers between her legs. She gasped and pitched forward slightly, catching her balance on his shoulders with both hands.  The shirt fell open on the movement, revealing her naked form in the process. Sherlock grinned wickedly. "Though I must say I think I prefer this shirt on you," he said, before bringing his mouth to her pert breast and gently circling it with his tongue. 

 Molly shuddered, goosebumps erupting over her body as he drew her nipple all the way into his mouth, sucking and lightly biting down, drawing his tongue over the hardened peak slowly, deliberately. He brushed one hand up her abdomen to cup her other breast, and began placing several open mouthed kisses to her collarbone and sternum before trailing his tongue over to meet his hand, awarding the other nipple the same lavish and merciless treatment. 

 Molly couldn't control the soft moans that escaped from the back of her throat. _Alright, not a one-off then._ She slid her hands off his shoulders and up through his hair, cradling his head tightly to her breast. _A two-off, maybe? Is that even a thing?_

 "Molly, stop thinking, it's very distracting," Sherlock rumbled against her chest. 

 "Right, sorry," Molly gasped as Sherlock slowly began kissing his way down the smooth plane of her stomach. Her legs were just beginning to tremble when he suddenly grabbed her by the hips, and in one swift movement, flipped her on her back, laying her out on the sofa. He pulled his shirt off and tossed it aside, as he trailed his mouth and fingertips lower, all the way down one smooth, pale leg, and back up the other, slowly, teasingly. He stopped as he reached her inner thigh, and very slowly ran two fingers across her entrance, leading Molly to buck her hips involuntarily and nearly choke on her moans. "Hmm," Sherlock murmured against the soft flesh of her thigh. "You're remarkably wet already. Perhaps you don't require any additional assistance after all." He planted another soft, teasing kiss to her skin, this one so close to her core that she practically squirmed off the couch in anticipation. 

 "Sherlock Holmes, don't you DARE fucking stop," Molly gasped desperately as she grabbed his head with both hands, weaving his dark curls through her tensed fingers. He peered up at her with a smirk.  "Did they teach you to talk like that in Catholic school, Margaret Theresa Hooper?" he teased, his deep voice rumbling across her skin. 

 "Yes, Sherlock, that's what Sister Mary Eunice told us to say if a boy was taking too long to eat us out," Molly somehow managed to groan, tightening her grip on his curls. Sherlock raised his eyebrows, and she could tell that she had surprised him. Hell, she had just surprised herself. She had never been one for dirty talk before, but the dark look in his eyes told her that Sherlock more than appreciated her directness. She was only happy to oblige. 

 "Now," she panted, squirming as she felt his breath ghost across her apex, "are you going to rub your face in it or not?"

  _Well, that takes care of that._ Molly practically levitated off the sofa as Sherlock dove forward, running his tongue through her folds before closing his mouth around her clit. She cried out a string of curse words and blasphemous proclamations as he lapped at her with keenness, reaching up with one hand to cradle a breast while stroking her lower abdomen with the other. 

 She continued to hold his head tightly, positioning him exactly where he needed to be. He flicked her clit with the tip of his tongue once more before leaning down lower. He swept both of his hands under her arse and lifted gently as he inserted his tongue directly into her cunt, pushing it in and out at a brutally slow pace. Molly arched her back higher, pulling on his hair. "Sherlock, Jesus fucking- oh shit- fuck, I need-" Molly sputtered, simultaneously pulling his head down tighter and pushing her pelvis toward his face. 

 "You need _what_ , Molly?" Sherlock asked crisply, though his voice had taken on a slight roughness. He ceased his activities and gazed at her wolfishly. Molly couldn't help bit release a tortured whine at the sudden loss of contact. 

 "Just don't…ugh, just harder… _please_ …" she babbled, well aware how desperate she sounded, and not really caring one bit. She pushed her hips toward him again. He raised his eyebrow in amusement, evidently taking pleasure in her desperation.   _Oh, you fucking bastard._   _I don't know whether to punch him in the face or throw him down and suck him off,_ Molly thought to herself before he slowly inserted his finger into her wet heat, crooking it slightly as he pumped it back and forth. _Maybe I’ll do both._

 Sherlock finally lowered her hips back to the sofa, and using both hands, pinned her down as he resumed his oral ministrations. Using his lips, tongue, teeth, he quickly brought her back to the brink. Wave after wave of pure pleasure rolled up her body as she bucked her hips futilely against the strong hands that held her in place, and when he closed his lips around her clit and sucked gently, it was all over. Every muscle in her lower body seemingly exploded, ecstasy radiating from her pulsing center to every square inch of her body as she cried out, pulling on his hair sharply as she rode out the shock waves against his face. 

 Molly felt herself gently floating back to earth as Sherlock crawled up her body, discretely wiping his face with the back of his hand before leaning down to kiss her softly on the lips. She could tell he was trying very hard to control his breathing as she felt him graze the tip of his cock across her entrance. When had he taken his pants off? "May I?" he asked, the tremble in his voice barely perceptible, but definitely present. She broke into a lazy smile. "I would say so," she murmured, gently brushing a wayward curl off his forehead.

 He dropped his head to her shoulder and planted a gentle kiss to her pulse point as he slowly eased himself inside of her, sliding his free hand gently under her arse and lifting her hips slightly. She had regained enough muscle control to wrap her legs around his waist, a movement that drew him in even deeper and caused his breath to hitch sharply against her neck. She wrapped her arms around his shoulders tightly as he began to move his hips, slowly at first, then faster as Molly rolled her pelvis upward in time with his thrusts. He sucked sharply at her throat, and before she knew it, she was gone again. Her second orgasm of the morning peaked more slowly than the first, and what it lacked in explosive power it made up for in rather impressive endurance, lasting for minutes on end. 

 Molly was still cresting through her climax when Sherlock captured her mouth roughly, his thrusts becoming sharper, more erratic, signaling his impending completion. She tightened her legs around him and drew him down as hard as her sensitive skin could tolerate as he came inside her, moaning an unintelligible stream of curse words interspersed with what sounded like her name. 

 He collapsed his full weight on top of her, making breathing a bit of an adventure for Molly, but she was too shagged out to care about such trivial things such as oxygen consumption. _A girl...could get used to this,_ she thought dreamily, stroking the back of his head, her body occasionally giving an involuntary twitch in its post-orgasmic state.  _Yes. A girl could_ definitely _get used to this._

 

**Author's Note:**

> Follow me on Tumblr - I'm terribly unpopular, but don't let that stop you: masterkate221b and/or shippingsherlock.


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